


Paint

by ronniesshoes



Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: Body Paint, Getting Together, M/M, Mirror Sex, Shower Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-01
Updated: 2018-02-01
Packaged: 2019-03-12 11:26:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13546365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ronniesshoes/pseuds/ronniesshoes
Summary: Brian has bought paint, and inviting Roger over seems like a good idea. He also breaks a cup. Oh, and he’s in love





	Paint

Brian is halfway through his third cup of tea when the doorbell rings. Or rather, he _was_ halfway through it; now his mouth is set with displeasure as he eyes the broken china, the tea slowly seeping into the carpet and leaving behind a stain.  
  
It’s been like that ever since he got back from tour, everything feeling a bit off-kilter. It’s been little things mostly, like his tape recorder not working, or every pen he owns suddenly missing; the beginning of a new number one rapidly slipping from his brain as he’s frantically searching the house, the blinding pain when he knocks his elbow into the door frame right where it hurts the most. He knows why all this is happening, of course; he’s worrying too much, has done so since the morning after and probably months and weeks before that as well, and everything always seems to go wrong when he worries.  
  
And now today when he has finally screwed up the courage to call him, now that  _he is standing outside his door_ , the last of grandma’s cups is on the floor and Brian can already see mum’s disapproving stare the next time she visits and finds the last thing left behind from her mother missing.  
  
How it even broke is a mystery, he muses as he bends down to pick up the pieces, because the carpet is thick and soft and has saved him many cups already, so why not _today?_  
  
A world-weary sigh escapes him, and he grimaces, aware that he sounds like a grumpy old man; it’s still a bit too early for that, he thinks. There are no papers anywhere to wrap the shards in, and the broken china is tea-wet and slightly sticky with sugar. The doorbell rings again.  
  
Ignoring the faint throbbing behind his forehead, he makes for the door, hands still cupped underneath the remnants of grandma’s favourite cup, and he somehow manages to push down the door handle with his elbow.  
  
The door slams open, and the pang of relief Brian feels in his chest is so strong it almost hurts.  
  
Roger is on his threshold, hands in his pockets, and his hair is messy from the drive, cheeks slightly red and his smile almost sort of bashful. Brian’s heart skips a beat.  
  
“It’s fucking freezing out there,” Roger says as a way of greeting, and toes off his shoes. The wind slams the door shut behind him. He eyes the shards in Brian’s hands, still dripping tea onto the floor, and grins, “for me?”  
  
Brian rolls his eyes affectionately; his bad mood melts away like snow in the sun. “It’s grandma’s last,” he explains, “mum will have a fit when she finds out I broke it.”  
  
“Buy a new one then,” Roger suggests, trailing after him into the kitchen, “loads of cups like that at markets and such.”  
  
“The second she sees it, she’ll know,” he says, carefully wrapping the shards in an old cloth, “and it’s no use to even try, in an hour or so I’ve forgotten what it looks like.”  
  
The broken cup safely wrapped and thrown out, he turns on the tap to clean his hands off tea and liquid sugar. Roger is looking at him as he dries his hands, hint of a teasing smile on his lips, and Brian questions him with a cocked eyebrow.  
  
The drummer leans over the counter, face showing all signs that he’s about to make him feel embarrassed about something. He’s right, of course; Roger hasn’t forgotten, and it’s not like everything isn’t all set and ready in the next room. “So this art project of yours,” Roger says, slowly, teasingly, “what exactly do you need my help for?”  
  
Brian waits, because the cheeky glint in the drummer’s eyes tells him he’s not done yet.  
  
He is full on grinning now, “do I have to pose nude? Because honestly—”  
  
There it is. Brian feels his cheeks heat up, and rushes to explain, “no! No, no. You don’t have to do anything. I was just gonna paint your back. If you don’t mind, of course.”  
  
“Oh,” Roger says, “sure.”  
  
“On my bed then? It’s more comfortable than the floor, and the couch is not big enough.” His cheeks are burning now, probably crimson already, and even though it’s not meant to sound suggestive, Brian’s brain can’t help but link it together with something akin to three days ago.  
  
And damn it, he doesn’t mean to, knows already it’s not going to happen, and he doesn’t want it anyway, only called because he missed him.  
  
Not because he’s been tearing his hair out wondering if it meant anything to Roger, or if it means anything to  _him_.  
  
Roger quirks an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth turning up in a wry smile that makes Brian’s stomach flutter. “Sure,” he nods.  
  
There’s a brief moment of silence where Brian struggles for something to say. He’ll seem too eager if he suggests they just get on with it - the  _painting_ \- but he doesn’t know what else to do, desperately searches his brain—what do they usually do together?—the silence now bordering on awkward.  
  
Roger saves him, eyebrows slightly raised, ever-present hint of a smile on his lips, “well if you’re not even going to offer me a cup of tea first …”  
  
“I can make you tea!” He sounds desperate, he knows, but suddenly he doesn’t know how to act around his friend.  
  
Roger laughs. “it’s all right, Bri. I get it, the broken cup and all.”  
  
Well.  _He_ doesn’t get it.  
  
“Come on, then,” Roger says, pushing himself away from the counter, and Brian follows him to the bedroom. It’s clean now, his bedroom, or at the very least decent; the bed made with the paint tubes scattered on top in a neat-but-careless way, dirty socks from the floor thrown in the hamper, slips of paper with scribbles all over hastily gathered in messy piles, Hoover still there but fortunately pushed into a corner and not left in the middle of the room.  
  
If Roger appreciates the effort, he doesn’t show it, just starts unbuttoning his shirt, and Brian wants to kick himself, because how could he possibly forget that discarding of clothes is likely to occur somewhere along the line?  
  
Roger’s shirt is thrown onto a nearby chair, and then he’s crawling onto the bed, muscles moving under smooth skin, Brian’s mouth impossibly dry.  
  
“All right?” Roger asks, “you look a bit peaky.”  
  
“Uh-huh,” he says, trying to keep his gaze strictly on Roger’s face but finds it hard to. He looks away.   
  
“So do you want me on my stomach or sitting up or what?”  
  
“Uh, on your stomach will work fine,” he says, “probably more comfortable as well.”  
  
“All right.” Roger turns over so he’s lying flat on his stomach, but soon after pushes himself up on his knees to make a grab for one of the pillows. He then shifts around a bit, turning the pillow over a couple of times and experimentally bending his knee a bit before finally settling.  
  
“You done now?” Brian asks, unable to keep the amused tone out of his voice. Roger grunts into the pillow.  
  
The mattress depresses as he gracelessly crawls onto the bed, and he carefully straddles the back of Roger’s thighs, jeans clad bum suddenly uncomfortably close. “Is this all right? I’m not putting too much weight on you?”  
  
Roger huffs out a laugh, “no, you’re fine.”  
  
He takes his time unscrewing the caps and filling the palette, trying hard not to mind the silence. He dips the brush in midnight blue paint and for a moment, he studies the drummer’s back; the angles of his shoulder blades, the valley of his spine, and the smooth, almost hairless skin. He lowers the brush and lets it swipe over Roger’s skin, marveling at the goosebumps that appear.  
  
“Feels weird,” Roger mumbles, “cold.”  
  
Brian fights the smile tugging at the corners of his lips; he’s not sure why it’s even there. “Not complaining already, are you?”  
  
“I think I have the right to what with the way you take advantage of me. Too bloody nice I am.”  
  
Brian huffs out a laugh at that but makes no further comment, and they slip into an easy silence. Roger’s eyes drift closed after a short while, and Brian start humming softly, gradually turning Roger’s back into something soon resembling his bedroom poster back home.  
  
Almost two hours later, and Brian is putting the last touches on Saturn’s rings. Roger appears to be asleep, has been so for an hour at least, and Brian hands have strayed a few times too many, careful brushes of his fingers against Roger’s sides, hand close but not quite palming a buttock through worn jeans. Roger is a deep sleeper and it’s so easy that Brian feels just a tad guilty, but still his heart is in his throat when he holds onto his hip as he reaches for the camera on the nightstand. There’s a small amount of drool at the corner of Roger’s lips, he notices, smiling fondly at the sight. He gets hold of the camera and straightens again, carefully shifting his weight so as not to stir him awake.  
  
As always, he forgets to adjust the lighting, and the picture turns out too bright. The next is better, the painted solar system now perpetuated, and with a third click of the shutter, so is Roger’s sleeping face.  
Camera back on the nightstand and the last picture hid away in his bottom drawer, he tries to wake the sleeping drummer.  
  
“Roger?” he whispers, skimming a hand along his side.  
  
Roger’s eyelashes flutters, but he doesn’t move otherwise. Brian leans over his body, white shirt nearly touching the not-quite dry paint on his back, a hand gently shaking his shoulder.  
  
“Come on, Rog, wake up.”  
  
His friend responds with an incomprehensible mumble into the pillow, and Brian is about to lean in closer to hear him when Roger suddenly tries to turn around, Brian almost toppling off him. The drummer offers a sleepy apology, and Brian climbs off him, minding the paint and brushes, watching as Roger attempts to get up on his knees before clumsily sitting down, seemingly remembering the still wet paint on his back. He rubs his face and blearily looks up at him. Brian’s heart skips a beat.  
  
“Can’t believe you let me sleep in these,” the drummer mumbles, still sounding half asleep, and wriggles out of his tight jeans.  
  
Brian, unable to look away, watches, open-mouthed, as strong hands push the fabric down to reveal pale, naked thighs, and when Roger straightens up again, Brian catches sight of the outline of his cock through thin underwear. He tears his gaze away, cheeks burning.  
  
“So can I paint on you now?” Roger asks, offering him a cheeky smile.  
  
“Um…” Brian doesn’t know how to get himself out of this one, but fortunately, Roger carries on with another question.  
  
“Is the paint dry? Can I lie down?”  
  
“I think so,” he says, “but hold on a second.” He moves back on the bed so he’s sitting behind Roger and carefully pats the most recently painted parts with the tips of his fingers, “yeah, you’re good.”  
  
“You’ve got the softest bed,” Roger sighs, lying down and stretching his arms above his head, a content smile on his face.  
  
“I suppose it’s quite nice,” he says, absentmindedly fiddling with his shirt cuff while trying not to stare. He doesn’t know what to do, what to make of it all. It’s so different from pre-show hand jobs in the dressing room to take off the edge, or a sloppy blowjob at 3 a.m. in the loo at the pull-up after a tiring day cramped in the back of a van, even different from the way Roger cuddled up next to him afterwards, or the messy, drunken fuck at the end of tour party. It had felt right at the time, just another of their on-tour shenanigans; quick and messy, judgement clouded by alcohol and adrenaline, pre-show nerves or exhaustion. His wandering mind or the frequent, not-so-subtle peeks in the dressing room he never could help, he stubbornly pushed far back in his mind to dwell on later.  
  
And now Roger is on his bed, not-quite but close-to naked, and there are no distractions, no way they can do anything without it turning into  _something_ , and Brian feels terrified, though strangely curious as well.  
  
“Are you gonna paint my chest as well?” Roger’s voice interrupts his thoughts, and Brian decides he might as well.  
  
“I was planning on it,” he says, “no objections from you, I hope?”  
  
“’Course not,” Roger says, and then he’s subtly, but definitely on purpose, spreading his legs just slightly.  
  
He pretends not to notice and carefully straddles his thighs again. “As long as you don’t fall asleep on me again.”  
  
“I make no promises,” he says, and then he’s grinning with the tip of his tongue pressed against the back of his teeth, Brian’s favourite grin.  
  
“I’ll pinch you,” he threatens, but his voice sounds weak even to his own ears. The brush hovers over Roger’s stomach, his mind suddenly blank.  
  
“You’re thinking too much,” Roger says, corner of his mouth turned up, and Brian moves back when he sits up, not prepared for how close they’re suddenly sitting. Roger’s hand comes out of nowhere, fingers dipped in blue paint, and brushes over his face before he has time to react.  
  
“I should’ve seen that coming,” he says, about to wipe it away when Roger grabs his wrist.  
  
“Hey, leave it,” the drummer murmurs, and Brian nods, painfully aware of Roger’s hand around his wrist, the touch making his skin tingle.  
  
“Oh, I almost got paint on your shirt,” Roger says then and lets go of his wrist. He wipes his fingers on the back of his other hand and looks up at him, and Brian wonders if his pupils have always been this large, irises a ring of pale blue around endless black. “It suits you so well, I don’t wanna ruin it,” he murmurs, lowering his gaze again. Brian’s breath is stuck in his throat, gaze fixed on Roger’s hands as they move towards the top button of his shirt. The hands still, and Roger looks at him with a shy sort of smile. “Do you mind?”  
  
He shakes his head, dumb-struck, and Roger starts unbuttoning his shirt, so teasingly slow he feels his mouth go dry. He’s suddenly very aware of his own hands, doesn’t know what to do with them, large and heavy-warm on the too fancy sheets Freddie got him. The fabric of his shirt brushes against his chest as Roger works the buttons open, and Roger’s thighs feels burning hot even through the fabric of Brian’s trousers.  
  
And then the shirt is sliding off his shoulders and Roger is looking at him with a mischievous smile before he reaches for a brush and dips it in paint. A shiver runs down Brian’s spine when the brush touches his skin, the paint cool and wet but oddly pleasurable.  
  
“Hold still,” Roger says, face growing serious as he starts painting. A cute little furrow appears between his eyebrows. “Don’t breathe!”  
  
Brian obediently holds his breath and sits up straight to provide an as flat as possible surface for Roger to paint on, but it’s hard to focus when he’s in an intimate situation like this, Roger nearly naked underneath him, hand brushing against his stomach.  
  
He’s just about to suggest he lie down when Roger puts the brush down and announces he’s done. Brian leans back to avoid knocking their skulls together when he cranes his neck to inspect the drummer’s work. Without warning, Roger pushes him off him with a loud swear, and Brian lets out a yelp.  
  
“What the—”  
  
“Your tailbone!”  
  
“Sorry,” he says, a little embarrassed.  
  
“You’re lucky I forgive you,” Roger says, rolling over and crawling on top of him.  
  
A surge of heat shoots straight to his cock when Roger straddles him, but the drummer doesn’t seem to notice, busy with his painting now that Brian is lying flat on the bed.  
  
It’s a bit unfair, Brian thinks, for him to have to lie like this, unable to look anywhere but at Roger, his face and hands and naked torso. He is still not sure if Roger thinks of this as something perfectly normal, two friends half naked in the bedroom with paint all over them. Of course Brian personally would reserve that sort of thing for someone he was specially fond of, but then Roger is so very different from him, always up for anything with anyone.  
  
“What d'ya think?” Roger interrupts his thoughts, moving back slightly more carefully than Brian did.  
  
Brian props himself up on his elbows and looks down at Roger’s artwork, but what it’s supposed to be is hard to tell when it’s upside down.  
  
“Uh… What exactly is it supposed to be?”  
  
“It’s a guitar, you wanker! And a drum set!” he roars and pinches Brian’s nipple, hard.  
  
“Ow!”  
  
“There. You deserve it.”  
  
“I do not! It was upside down, it was hard to tell!”  
  
“Hm.” Roger doesn’t appear entirely convinced, but soon he’s smiling again and dipping two fingers in green paint. He studies his face, seemingly contemplating something, and Brian feels a delicious flicker of fear.  
  
“I like finger painting better anyway,” he says softly, leaning forward to brush paint coated fingers over his cheek. Brian shudders at the light touch and finds himself completely lost in deep blue eyes when he looks up. Roger’s fingers graze the corner of his mouth, and he involuntarily parts his lips.  
  
His heart is beating like mad, and disappointment drops heavy in his stomach when Roger suddenly straightens, the serious look on his face replaced by a playful smile. He turns to get more paint, and Brian seizes the opportunity to flip him over, Roger squealing and smearing orange-green on his shoulder.   
  
He struggles to get free, but Brian uses his greater weight to keep him down. Their noses almost bump together, so close are their faces, and when he shifts, Roger’s body jerks, his breath catching in his throat.  
  
A warm hand comes up to curl around the subtle curve of his waist, an insistent press against his skin—a turn of Roger’s wrist, and his fingers could dip into Brian’s trousers. Pink lips twitch into a smile, and then they’re on his, briefly, before murmuring, “get these off”, hand sliding further down to grab and squeeze, fabric and flesh, Brian’s open mouth pressed to his neck, a soundless moan that leaves behind damp skin and a madly beating pulse.  
  
They paint each other after that, brushes long forgotten, fingertips dancing over heated skin, feet knocking the paint tubes over and staining the sheets.  
  
He’s back on top of him when Roger steals the camera from the table and snaps a picture of him, grinning madly and leaving red and yellow fingerprints on his camera, but Brian doesn’t mind at all. Then he’s pulled down to lie next to him, their skulls knocking together and bodies close, and Roger holds the camera in straight arm, the lens pointed towards them, and Brian, usually not fond of having his picture taken, smiles anyway, teeth and all.  
  
He has enough foresight to collect pictures and camera and put them on the nightstand before either get crushed, but not enough to foresee the slap of two multi-coloured hands to his bum. He yelps as Roger pulls him back on the bed with an arm around his waist, the other, paint-slick, sliding over his forehead and into his hair, a stripe of white (badger-like, he assumes) through his curls. They tumble about for a while more, but soon mouths join hands, dragging over sensitive spots and teasing the edge of underwear until Roger, at last, takes him by the hand and leads him to the bathroom.  
  
The tiles are shockingly cold against his backside when he’s pushed against the wall of the shower cabinet, the smaller body pressed against him burning hot. Roger fumbles to turn on the water, and they both jump when the icy spray of water hits them. Brian doesn’t mind, because Roger is laughing quietly, and then he captures his mouth in a long kiss that leaves them both breathless and Brian’s cock a swell of need against Roger’s hip.  
  
“You got any lube?” Roger asks when he breaks away for air. Brian almost doesn’t hear him, distracted by the sheen of saliva coating his swollen lips, his messy hair and heavy-lidded gaze.  
  
Too out of breath, he doesn’t trust himself to speak, and he settles for an useless gesture in Roger’s general direction.  
  
“Oh, there. Not the first time you’ve had fun in the shower, eh?” he grins, snatching the jar of Vaseline from the soap dish, and Brian feels himself colour in embarrassment. “This what you picture?” Roger purrs, looking up at him from under long lashes, his cock a solid line of heat against Brian’s thigh.  
  
“Shut up,” he mumbles, and Roger just laughs and kisses him again.  
  
After a moment of struggling, he manages to get the lid off, and then he’s scooping a generous amount of Vaseline up before wrapping a greasy hand around Brian’s cock. Brian bites back a moan, helplessly bucking up into his fist, the slow, steady motion not nearly enough. His eyes fall shut and he leans back against the wall, unable to distract himself from the tingling pleasure, and Roger is sucking kisses along the line of his jaw, teeth grazing the corner of it. He lets out a weak moan as a wet mouth moves onto his ear, lips brushing against his earlobe and sending shivers down his spine before teeth close around it, gently tugging.  
  
“Brian,” the drummer murmurs, his breath tickling his ear, “I want you—to—take me—against the wall.”  
  
His eyes snap open, a jolt of arousal going straight to his cock at the words, and Roger leans in to kiss him again, hand slipping away from his cock and reaching up to tangle in his hair instead.

  
He promptly spins them around, lifting Roger by the thighs and pushing him against the wall. Roger groans out a filthy sound, his legs wrapped around Brian’s waist. Brian captures his mouth in a kiss, their teeth clicking as he pushes into that tight, slick heat, and Roger clings to his neck, everything too much and not nearly enough.  
  
There’s water everywhere, water in their mouths between kisses, water washing away the paint, water, now scalding hot, beating down on the hands splayed across his back as Roger’s hips push down and oh  _God_.   
  
Roger’s head is resting against the still-cold tile, face tilted towards him, and Brian leans down to kiss him. It’s less lips and tongue than it’s their breaths mingling, hot, puffy, and he feels dizzy, almost chokes on the humid air.  
  
He tightens his grip around Roger’s thighs, his thrusts becoming more forceful, and their noses bump together, lips pulling at lips and tongues tangling, desperate. The pleasure-pain of Roger’s fingers tangled in his hair and the heat pooling low in his stomach has him pulling away slightly to look at Roger’s flushed face, the drops of water like tears on his cheek, lips raw and swollen, cute little furrow between his eyebrows, and Brian decides there’s something else he wants to try.  
  
He kisses the drummer’s nose once in silent apology, hands smoothing at the back of his thighs, and Roger shuts his eyes like he knows what’s coming.  
  
“Don’t stop,” he stutters when Brian slows down, “don’t, I need—Brian …”  
  
He twists his hands in Brian’s hair, lips pushing and pulling at his, clinging to him when he slips out and leaves him empty.  
  
“Come on,” Brian breathes, pulling the shower curtain aside, and steers him towards the sink. They both look flushed in the mirror, and Roger’s eyes fall shut when Brian presses up against him. “Open your eyes,” he whispers, “I want you to see how lovely you look when you come.”  
  
Roger moans weakly, and Brian kisses his ear, nudging the tip of his cock against his Vaseline-slick entrance. Roger nudges right back, and Brian grips his hips and pushes into that tight heat once again, starting a deliciously slow pace that has Roger moaning weakly. He’s bent over the sink, strong hands clenched around the edge of it, breath fogging the mirror. Droplets of water pearl on his skin, and he’s watching them in the mirror from under heavy lids, swollen lips parted, and his breath catches slightly every time Brian pushes back in.  
  
“Look at you,” he whispers, a hand sliding up his chest. He can feel the quick beat of Roger’s heart, and Roger screws his eyes shut when Brian gets hold of his chin. He traces trembling lips with his thumb before pushing two fingers into his mouth. Roger bites down, trapping his fingers between lips and teeth, tongue pushing against the calloused pads, mouth enveloping his whole being in wet heat. “So— _oh_.”  
  
He tightens his grip around Roger’s hips and forces himself in deeper, and Roger’s body goes taut, low, insistent moan making his fingers tingle with the vibrations. Sweet relief is just within reach, and every fibre in his body is telling him to give in, but he keeps his pace, slowly edging closer to orgasm until he forces himself to still.  
  
“Brian,” Roger breathes, lips tightening around his fingers for a moment before relaxing in an exhale.  
  
He lets his fingers slip out of Roger’s mouth and brushes over a hard nipple instead, leaving it glistening with saliva. Roger presses back against his chest, the softest moan leaving his mouth, his hips pushing down, impaling himself impossibly further on Brian’s cock. Brian kisses his neck, catching a fold of skin between his teeth and leaving behind a red, wet mark.  
  
When he feels sure he can move again without falling apart, he wraps his hand around Roger’s cock, the strangled noise spilling from the drummer’s lips lighting fire inside of him.  
  
With easy sliding thrusts, slow and deep, he continues to tease them both, stubbornly ignoring his throbbing cock and Roger’s sobbing breath, always pulling back a mere moment before he comes.  
  
“Close.”  
  
“Close.”  
  
“Clo—oh, so close.”  
  
“Brian, please—please let go,” Roger chokes out at last, “I can’t-”  
  
Brian inhales sharply at the plea and tightens his hand around Roger’s hip, fingers digging into the hollow there, hard enough to leave bruises. Their skin is slick with sweat, his chest sliding against Roger’s back, and there’s salt on his tongue from dragging his mouth over flushed skin.  
  
Roger’s mouth hangs open, lower lip twitching like he’s trying to form words. He lifts his gaze to Brian’s, slowly, like he’s too exhausted to, and then he clenches tight around his cock, and Brian chokes and falls to pieces. Roger follows, coming sticky-hot all over the sink and Brian’s hand, and even in his daze, he notices that Roger’s eyes are fixed on the mirror all the while.  
  
When it’s all over, Brian slips his arms around Roger’s waist, and Roger slumps back against his chest, eyes still on their steam-blurred reflection, a thumb lazily rubbing over Brian’s forearm. They look good together, Brian thinks, and Roger feels so right in his arms that it’s almost too much.  
  
“I’m in love with you,” he rasps, overcome with sudden emotion, and buries his face in Roger’s hair, too afraid to see his reaction.  
  
Several agonizing seconds pass before Roger is lightly tapping his arm, and he opens one eye, shyly peeking at their reflection again. Roger’s smile is soft and sort of tender, and he turns in Brian’s arms, draping his arms around his neck and pulling him down for a slow, lingering kiss, all soft lips and gentle movements and just the right amount of love.  
  
“Come on, let’s wash up,” he whispers when they break apart, and takes his hand to drag him back under the spray of water, “you’ve still got paint on your nose.”


End file.
